


Laugh Like There's Hope

by shewontsleep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Camping, English, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Teenlock, sunset
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewontsleep/pseuds/shewontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The threads of their lives twisted in many different directions before coming together.</p><p> </p><p>(A story of two people who are going to meet, but haven't done so yet. A tale of Sherlock and John, and how they came to be. They have to be patient, even though they don't know what they're waiting for - or that they're even waiting at all.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An English Sunset

One night, many years ago, two boys watched the English sunset. They were not with one another. No, they had not even met. However, they would meet one day, and that is what's important here. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are two very different people, see. The threads of their lives twisted in many different directions before coming together. They grew up quite different, and stayed that way. They needed one another from the beginning, though. However, they were not ready to meet. In order for things to turn out how they should, Sherlock and John must wait. (Although they don't know what they're waiting for. In fact, they don't even know that they're waiting at all, really.)

So here John Watson stands, twelve years old. He is packing for his very first sleep-away camp. His mother tells him that he'll learn to tie knots and shoot arrows and build campfires. John is very, very excited. He sloppily shoves boots and khaki shorts into his father's worn, forest green backpack. He notices the way the light shines through his window onto his skin, turning everything a pinkish orange. It make John smile a little, but doesn't distract him for long enough. Soon, Mrs. Watson shouts that supper is ready and that he better clean his room before tomorrow morning. With a quick eyeroll, John heads downstairs and sits at the table. He's too excited to really focus on food at the moment, though.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't have time for sunsets. Well, at least most of the time he doesn't. Tonight, however, the seven year old has been banished to his room. Sherlock had simply asked his father's boss (who had come for dinner) if he was on a diet like Mycroft, and why it wasn't working. He didn't see the harm in that. Yet here he sits, on his bed, pouting and glaring at his pet toad, who is across the room on his desk. In all honesty, Sherlock wouldn't have noticed the golden light dancing across the curtains in his bedroom if it hadn't made his eyes water. Too bright, he decided before burying his face in his pillow. Too boring, but covering his eyes proved to grow just as boring, if not more so. Sherlock lifted his head and rubbed his eyes, once again irritated by the brightness. It was only now that he glanced outside and noticed the red-gold light splayed on the front lawn. It looked nice, he thought, like the painting of the ocean in the parlor.

Sleep-away camp was perfect for John. He made friends: Steve, Andrew, and Jacob. The boys sat around in a circle, wearing their hiking boots. The outdoors echoed with laughter and dares, confessions and squeals. John would never forget this night. Later on, they crawled into their sleeping bags and fell asleep to the feeling of belonging. It was nice, but by Friday afternoon, John was tired and dirty and just a little bit homesick, even though he'd never admit it.  
After bidding goodbye to Steve, Andrew, and Jacob, he climbed into the dusty red family car and sighed happily. His family asked about the trip, and he was more than happy to tell them all about it. That night, John fell asleep in his own bed (which he especially appreciated, after using a sleeping bag for seven nights) and dreamed of lakes and campfires and forests.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking back at the newspaper in front of him. Mycroft had just come home from school and was babbling on about his new Government course. Boring. Sherlock, unlike Mycroft, was more interested in the unsolved serial killings that were described on the front page of the post than how international relations work. "I'm the best in my class, without a doubt. It's all so _simple_." The elder brother bragged. After telling him to shut up, Sherlock got up and walked outside. He walked through the yard and across the street, heart still alight with the childish belief that he really could escape. The boy kept walking, the twilight sky making his skin look purple. He walked and walked, watching the old, fancy houses transform into quainter, smaller ones. He didn't know why this happened, why people with big houses didn't associate with those who owned smaller ones. He was smart, but still naive (if you can imagine that). Before long, a car pulled up beside him. _Mycroft_. After some quick negotiations, Sherlock sat down in the back seat of the shiny black car and went home. Mycroft was a git, but it was also getting cold out.

That was all then, however. Sherlock and John were mere children- young, forgiving, and happier than they ought to be. No, neither had a perfect childhood, but things tend to feel shinier through the filter of youthful eyes. John had never thought of being a doctor (though his caring ways made him perfect for the job), and the term _Consulting Detective_  had not existed (yet Sherlock had begun deducing his schoolmates when he was six). They still have a ways to go before meeting. The world needs to change some more, they need to grow up. It isn't to say that they didn't need one another as children, but patience is important. (We are all waiting for someone.)

 


	2. Alone at a Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are a bit older, and things are only getting harder. These are not the years they will look back on and smile, these are the years they are trying to forget.

Neither Sherlock nor John were blessed with the teenage years that they had hoped to experience. But, then again, does adolescence ever live up to the expectations? Though John did have summers littered with dates and parties, there was far too much angst and confusion for them to be satisfying. Sherlock, who was years younger than John, was ahead of his time. He noticed boys and girls around him pairing up and decided that it was all far too tedious to focus on. His peers, apparently, weren't as predictable as chemicals or decomposing matter. They cried and laughed and teased and shouted. It was simply too messy to deal with. He did still have an idea in his mind for how his young adulthood should go. He had hoped to be much happier than he really was. John had hoped to be liked, to have more friends than he ended up gaining. Unfortunately, they both had their fair share of lonely lunches at empty tables and bouts of self-loathing. So of course, they could have used each other's company.

John pulled his navy jacket over his white button down and took one last look in the mirror before going down to the kitchen. "Mum, I've got to go pick Rachel up." He announced, trying to escape before his family decided to make a big deal of this all. Predictably, Mrs. Watson insisted on at least getting a photo because this was her youngest child going to a real dance. So he smiled and blushed a bit before turning and running out to the car, a bit blinded by the flash of a camera. The dance was nice, Rachel was nice. She was shorter than him, with dark hair and big eyes, they looked good together. They danced and laughed and talked, and John really enjoyed the attention he was receiving- not only from Rachel, but from everyone. However, as things often do, the night went wrong. It ended with Rachel falling-down drunk, vomiting in the school hallway. She wasn't nearly as cute with her mascara running and her dress hiked up. But John, being the kind boy he was, cleaned her up and drove her home. She didn't speak to him after that.

Which is worse, Sherlock wondered, being stared at or being purposely not stared at? He set his lunch tray down and sat. Yes, some children were terribly cruel, but most of them just stood there and tried not to look at the skinny, dark-haired boy eating alone. Sherlock thought he knew why nobody wanted to sit with him (or talk to him, or even look at him). He believed that he was too honest, and that nobody could understand him when he spoke. While this was a bit true, it was also that he scared people. Everyone. Even his teachers couldn't help but frown when Sherlock stood up and told the class about the digestive system of rats or the effect of lemon juice on rabbit's skin. He was content with being alone in his intelligence, but there were nights when he only wanted someone to talk to.

"You're gay," John repeated, sitting on the worn sofa across from his sister. She nodded. "That's...that's fine. You know that's fine, right Harry?" She nodded again. "You didn't tell mum? Or, or dad?" He knew the answer, and he knew how they would react. Of course, this all shouldn't have to be the big fuss that it was going to be. Their mother would nod and encourage her and coddle her. Their father might not be quite as content. Harriet shook her head and began to cry. Hesitantly, John reached over and grabbed her arm. "It's going to be fine. Listen to me, Harry. They're going to- it'll be okay." He looked up at her and smiled softly. "Alright?" John loved Harriet. She'd been, well, she'd been difficult at times, but she needed him now. The Watsons were there for one another. That's one thing John knew.

Sherlock swallowed and tried to keep stoic as Mycroft sat him down on his bed. "Sherlock," the older boy began, "please, just.... remain calm." The younger brother couldn't help but roll his eyes. He didn't want to remain calm. He wanted to shout and have a proper fit, in all honesty. He argued back, asked just _why_ he couldn't be upset, _why_   there was no time for tears or meltdowns. "Sherlock, caring is not an advantage. You must try and move on. Father is- he's..." Sherlock saw his brother's face soften for a moment. "He's not coming back, okay? Go to sleep." The twelve year old sighed and tried to keep from shaking as he lay down and shut his eyes. He heard the light switch off and the door close before he let a single tear slide down his cheek.

If only things weren't so complex. If only Sherlock knew how impressive he was and John knew how much he deserved. There are so many human beings on Earth, and so many of them just don't _fit_. They don't belong together, don't work together. It's hardly fair that the universe insists on keeping these two people, these two who are so wonderful together, apart. Each of them are about to withstand the most difficult years of their lives. They won't quite be alone, but they won't be together.


	3. A Dangerous Occupation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John both need (and want) danger. It has always been like that.

It's quite haunting, really, how often humans come incredibly close to death (and how often they can avoid it). Some people experience more close calls than others, however John and Sherlock each had more than their fair share. Coincidentally, they each brought most of the danger upon themselves. Nobody forced John to join the army, and nobody told Sherlock to pursue such an unsafe career. Each young man is about to enter the most dangerous years of their lives. One may call it silly or perhaps frustrating, how fragile life is. We are not given a set of guidelines telling us how to live safely and avoid death, yet it is probable that neither Sherlock nor John would obey if there were, in fact, rules of the sort. 

"Mum, I said I'm not sure yet!" John protested, burying his head in his hands. "I just... It's something I might be interested in." He cleared his throat and looked back up. His mother looked like she was about to cry.  
"The army, Johnny?" She asked, pacing back and forth on the old kitchen tile. John could only shrug. He'd merely brought the idea up after seeing a pamphlet on the sidewalk.  
"Yeah. I think it would be a good thing to focus on. I'm nineteen. I should have found a purpose by now, and the army could be it." He managed to sound fairly casual, considering the weight of the discussion that they were beginning.  
"I thought you wanted to be a doctor, honey. You'd be so good." Mrs. Watson cooed. John nodded.  
"I.. I think so, too. They have doctors in the army, you know." And to that, Mrs. Hudson furrowed her brow and opened her mouth slightly. It was the same look that Harry made when she was surprised or confused. To this, John could only shrug.

Sherlock kicked the cold brick wall in front of him. His stomach hurt nearly as bad as his head did. This was one of the countless times that he cursed his brain and the way it worked. His skin crawled with the desire to be torn apart and his bones ached. With a groan, Sherlock turned around and leaned against the damp bricks. Sherlock felt weak, and he despised it. Fortunately, he was alone. The last person who had seen Sherlock cry was Mycroft, back when he was in primary school. Crying was unnecessary. Not any sort of advantage. He let out a shaky breath and began walking swiftly. It didn't take long for the icy wind to dry the tears that had escaped his eyes, and Sherlock continued marching on. After nearly an hour of travelling without a destination, he found himself cold and alone without anybody in sight. This time, his big brother wasn't there to convince him to come back. There was nobody to show him the way home. 

John shifted on the uncomfortable canvas bedding. He was surrounded by the sound of twenty men's shallow breathing in the muggy Afghan air. No, these were not ideal sleeping conditions. However, he was beginning to feel as if he could, in fact, do it. He could be in the army, stitch people up and save soldiers from the claws of death. Sure, their first day had been uneventful compared to what was to come. John tried to simply close his eyes and focus on the surprisingly soft pillow that he clung to. After a few moments, John fell asleep. That night, he had dreamed of his family. It wasn't a proper dream, though. It had been more of a nightmare- the type that only seemed scary after waking up. He spent that entire second day thinking about them- Harry and his parents, how much he already missed them. This was going to be a challenge, he decided. Still, it would have to be worth it.

Sherlock was fourteen years old when he suffered his first acid burn. It was mild, yes, only caused by citric acid. However, it was the first of many. He had sat down in the kitchen, placing a vial of the acid and a vial of whole milk before him on the counter top. It was a vastly unexciting experiment, yet it ended with a rather interesting patch of discoloration on his left palm. As Sherlock reached for the vial of citric acid, he somehow managed to spill it, sending the liquid all over the counter top, covering most of his left hand. He hadn't expected the burning sensation, and perhaps that was why he let out a rather sharp yelp (although he would experience much harsher burns in the future and hardly flinch). No, this was certainly not the last of Sherlock's experiments.

While many associate danger with suffering, that is not always the truth. In fact, for Sherlock and John, it was quite the opposite. The rush, the thrill, the mere excitement of a near-death experience is more important to some than it is to others. Nevertheless, it has always been a potential factor in separating those destined to meet. How very tragic might it be to spend life searching for someone to understand, only to find that this single person has died due to their infatuation with danger? Happily, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not know.


	4. Too Much of My Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, when he was alone, he found himself looking around for a certain army doctor and beginning his sentences with, "As you can see, John..." It wasn't quite out of hand, however.

It's almost sad, how Sherlock never knew that he saved John. He didn't even know how important he was to him until much later on. Then again, people save one another quite often. A simple smile or greeting can change a person's outlook on life. This isn't something that either John or Sherlock were contemplating when they first interacted. They weren't trying at all to help the other. They simply knew that, hey, this could work. John needed a distraction at the time, and Sherlock needed something to focus on. Eventually, they became so much more to one another.

If John knew he was going to run into Mike, he probably wouldn't have gone on his walk. Thankfully, he had no way of knowing that he'd recognize a single person he saw that day, so John went on a walk. It had been one of his bad days- one of the worst, actually. He limped along, staring straight ahead in a weak attempt to avoid the sneaky glances of onlookers. He began to regret his afternoon stroll rather quickly. Just as John began to contemplate turning around, Mike Stamford called him over. He reluctantly greeted him, and was forced to talk about (and think about) Afghanistan again. "I got shot," he explained in an almost-rude manner. One thing led to another and he found himself inquiring about some buddy of Mike's who happened to be looking for a flatshare. "You're the second person who's asked me that today," Mike remarked with a chuckle. "Who was the first?" 

"Mike, may I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." It wasn't really a lie. Sherlock's mobile did work, but not very well in the lab. Still, he could have sent the message from his own without too much trouble. There was another man in the lab, however. It was almost too easy to deduce his past. This man was looking for a flatmate. That was obviously why Stamford had brought him. He was tired (though seemingly not from lack of sleep) yet friendly. Didn't seem too insufferable. Nevertheless, Sherlock Holmes was difficult to live with. That much he knew. The more he spoke, the more intrigued (and frightened) he watched this Doctor John Watson become. It wasn't the usual, mean spirited type of shock, though. It was almost endearing. This, he supposed, could be interesting.

Contrary to Mrs. Hudson's original belief, John Watson was not the 'sitting-down type.' He was quite the opposite. When he stood there that night, out of breath from laughing and from running faster than he had in quite a while, John knew this for sure. He had never been the type to stay around and watch the exciting stuff happen. Though he did know how to enjoy a night in or an occasional movie marathon, he needed the thrill that Sherlock seemed to be more than capable of providing. So there he was, standing against a wall, laughing harder than he should have been. He had forgotten how good it felt

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, staring at the skeleton that sat on the fireplace mantel. He had nearly forgotten about it. John had taken its place, becoming the new receiving end of his random and lengthy monologues. Now, when he was alone, he found himself looking around for a certain army doctor and beginning his sentences with, "As you can see, John..." It wasn't quite out of hand, however. He continued revolving around his work and his cases. John was simply a pleasant addition to the routine of it all. Yet, there Sherlock sat, glaring at the old, neglected skull and thinking about his flatmate. "Look at that, John." He said to nobody. "You're taking up far too much of my brain." 

It wasn't long until John and Sherlock were best mates. It was an odd, almost dysfunctional relationship. Yet, they were completely functional. The two men worked well together, and quickly learned the ways of one another. No, John didn't know much about Sherlock's past and the genius was having an increasingly difficult time reading John. Still, they fit and they thrived together. They were two people who were supposed to be together, and nearly everyone could see it. John and Sherlock were best friends, and that was enough for the moment.


	5. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let me just apologize for how long that took. Things got really busy at school, I lost motivation to write for a bit, and then I moved. So things weren't so easy as far as busting this little chapter out. I will be finishing this fic, though, so keep an eye out for the rest. Thanks for reading!

Friendship can be a curiously wonderful thing. It can be in inspiration to live, to carry on, to laugh and enjoy life. It can be the root of inspiration and joy. Friendship, also, can be the seed for a most beautiful flower of love. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes never planned to fall in love. In fact, neither would have ever imagined anything beyond platonic in their relationship if it weren't for the remarkably noticable connection they shared. It wasn't literal. Well, it wasn't _usually_ literal. Sometimes, it could be seen, however. In a particularly intense stare or a shared giggle between the two men, an outside individual would surely pick up on the chemistry. Some might call it an unlikely love, but they would be wrong. Sherlock had started out as a work-addicted genius (who was looking for a flatmate, not a lover. It wouldn't be logical to ask both of a man he hardly knew), and John was initially a very lost man (who had decided that heterosexuality was really the only option for him, since two gay children would _certainly_  be too much for his old-fashioned parents to cope with). Things change, though, and everything fell into place.

John didn't like to dust. In fact, the only reason the flat wasn't completely coated in it was because of Mrs. Hudson. Ever since losing his best friend, John only utilized about half of the flat. The refridgerator. The bathroom. His bedroom. His chair. The stove. Not too much more, though. He left everything that belonged to Sherlock as it was (with the exception of human body parts that were prone to rotting in the fridge). He took a deep breath and looked at his watch. Therapy in half an hour. Better get going. He stood and cracked his knuckles, consciously oblivious to how damn _quiet_  221B was. Coat on, shoes on, door opened. He went downstairs and out the door without pausing. 

Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was shorter than John would remember. He was thinner and perhaps a bit older looking. It was difficult to tell when oneself has aged. Obviously John wouldn't recognize the clothes he was wearing. A dark gray cotton t-shirt and army green sweatpants were his favorite clothing options. He brushed his teeth, spending extra time making sure he looked clean enough. He was seeing John tonight. Three years since their last conversation. The thought made him shiver, both with excitement and fear. He did not know how John would react. He knew from Mycroft, though, that John had a friend. An ex-girlfriend named Mary with whom he spent a fair amount of time. Sherlock focused mostly on flossing and not being jealous that morning. If Doctor Watson didn't reject him, that would be more than enough. It was nine in the morning. Sherlock was to see John in less than twelve hours. Brilliant.

The day that Sherlock returned had been the sort of bad day that John didn't tell others about. Sometimes he would share when things were difficult - he'd tell Greg that it hadn't been the best of days or he'd inform Mrs. Hudson that things were going 'a bit less than well' if he saw them. But days like that one in November were secret days, filled with angst and shouting and crippling disappointment. It was a day when John forgot he'd see his friend in some years when he passed away himself. He went to bed early. It was five past eight PM when a slow knock on the door rang through the flat. John decided he'd dreamed it. The next morning, he fainted when he spotted a ghost sleeping on the sofa. He awoke to find that it was Sherlock Holmes, alive and well.

For the next month, Sherlock held John's hand constantly. It wasn't something they discussed or acknowledged, and the same with everybody else. Finally, John had stopped the 'I'm not gay!' protestations and kept quiet when he was called Sherlock's 'partner,' or something like that. Everywhere the two of them went, their hands were entwined. Sherlock was grateful for this. If he always had some part of John to hold onto, they wouldn't be separated again. He wouldn't let that happen. No, things weren't the same. They weren't even better at first - not until John finally gave in and kissed Sherlock on the staircase. They held hands and they kissed and they loved one another. It was everything Sherlock had longed for for all those years. He finally had it, and things were looking up.

Some might argue that Sherlock and John were always in love. Is it possible to really be in love without realizing it? If so, then where does the line between friendship and infatuation lie? Perhaps it's different from person to person. All that matters, though, is that John and Sherlock are content. The dull longing in the base of Sherlock's abdomen had dissolved and John's fear of allowing himself what he wanted had disappeared. If their lives were simply part of a love story, that story would end right here. It would end with them lying in bed, tangled together and sleeping away the pain, because all's well that ends well, right? 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems a bit dull, it should speed up in the next one. If you have any ideas of things to add or headcanons you want to see incorporated, comment and I'll try to work it in! Thank you so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
